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Page 






Lullaby of a Lover .... 


' ' 






Heart and Soul .... 


4 






A Dirge 


7 






Stella, the only planet of my light 


IO 






My true-love hath my heart, and I have his 


1 1 






What bird so sings, yet does not wail ? 


12 






Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 


13 






Spring and Melancholy 


• H 






Rosalynd's Madrigal 

Phillis 


. 16 

■ l 9 






Cupid abroad was Mated in the night . 


21 






Sweet Content .... 


23 






Eidola 


24 






Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night 


26 






Beauty, sweet love ! is like the morning dew 


r 27 






Spring ...... 

Song of Motto and Perkin 


28 
30 


(fffi 




The Passionate Shepherd to his Love . 


32 


^Mm. 


E, j? 


Take, O take those lips away 

Ariel's Songs ..... 

Man and Woman * . 


34 

35 

■ 38 




. 


^0^ ? ^e^b^ Jl 



Jlt0t Of £>OIt20 



Spring 

Winter ..... 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind . 

Under the greenwood tree 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings 

Fidele ...... 

Sylvia ...... 

O mistress mine, where are you roaming ? 

Song of Autolycus . 

Come away, come away, Death 

That time of year thou mayst in me behold 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 

To Celia 

The Sweet Neglect 

The Shepherds' Holiday 

Echo's Song . 

An Ode to Himself 

The Invitation 

Good- Morrow 

To Phyllis . 

Beauty clear and fair 

Invocation to Sleep 

Hymn to Pan 

For Summer Time . 

The Manly Heart . 






!U0t of £>ong$ 



Phoebus, arise ! 


. 


• • • 


Page 
80 


Trust not, Sweet Soul ! those curled waves of golc 


1 . 83 


The Song of Celadyne 




. 


. 85 


Ask me no more where Jove 


bestows . 


88 


To Celia Singing . 




. 


. 90 


Disdain Returned . 




. 


. 91 


Chloris in the Snow 




. 


. 92 


Delight in Disorder 




. 


• 93 


To Julia 




. 


• 94 


To Meadows 






. . 96 


To the Virgins, to make ] 


nuch of Time 


. 98 


To the Rose . 




. 


100 


To Daffodils 




. 


IOI 


Corinna's Maying . 




. 


• 103 


To Daisies . 




. 


. 107 


To Anthea who may command him Any Thing 


. 108 


To One saying she was Old 


. 


1 10 


Description of Castara 




. 


112 


On a Girdle . 




. 


. 115 


Go, lovely Rose ! . 




. 


. 116 


To Chloris . 




. 


. 118 


Stay, Phoebus ! stay ! 




. 


. 119 


To Flavia 




. 


120 


Whoe'er she be 




. 


122 


A Ballad upon a Wedding 


• 


. 


. 126 


Why so pale and wan, fo] 


id lover ? . 


. 132 


Constancy . 




M 


• 133 



ili0t of £>ong$ 



I prithee send me back my heart 

To Althea from Prison . 

To Lucasta, going beyond the Seas 

To Lucasta, on going to the Wars 

The Grasshopper . 

Cherry Ripe ... 

Though you are young, and I am old 

Amarillis .... 

Where she her sacred bower adorns 

The man of life upright . 

The peaceful western wind 

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love 

Night as well as brightest day hath her delight 



Page 

"34 
136 

138 
140 
141 
H3 
H5 
146 
148 
151 
153 
155 
157 



w 




The earliest of the English poets, falling asleep in 
the stable as he watched the* cattle at Whitby \ saw a 
vision and heard a voice saying to him, in tones of 
authority, " Ccedmon, sing." So Bede tells us the 
secret of Caedmons inspiration ; not foreseeing, in his 
delightful simplicity, that he was showing forth, as in 
a parable, the chief characteristics of English poetry 
for all time to come. For the true English poet has 
never yet lacked the vision and the singi?ig voice, and 
the charm of the song has come largely from the vision. 
There have been, it is true, periods which were dis- 
tinctly lacking in inspiration and in that natural 
magic which is the mysterious possession of the poet 
by the grace of God; but these periods have been short, 
and prophecies of a better time have never been wholly 
absent from them. In decadent times the singing tra- 
dition has not been without its custodians, and in those 
[xiii] 



Jntrotmction 

ages of precision and regularity of form zuJiicJi are 
often miscalled classical the wild woodland note has, 
from time to time, floated over the garden wall. The 
vision of the imagination has rarely been denied to 
English foetry, and, as a rule, the magic of the musi- 
cal note has come with it. 

The Lyric, like the Ballad, is a poetic form whicJi 
goes home to the hearts and memory of people at 
large ; to those who are never quite at ease with the 
Epic, and to whom the Drama seems remote and alien. 
And the reason is not far to seek. The Lyric gives 
natural and direct expression to those emotions, expe- 
riences, passions, and aspirations in which men share 
according to temperament, sensitiveness, and fortune. 
Its demands in the way of natural gifts and of skill 
are, in the last degree, exacting ; but it is, at the same 
time, the most widely popular and the most deeply 
I of all the forms of verse. Burns songs are 
among the most nearly perfect and the best-known of 
modern English poems. Their perfection is beyond the 
reach of a man of lesser genius, and yet they are sung 
and recited by those who Jiave no adequate sense of 

their quality, no intelligent appreciation of their magic 

[xiv] 



3|ntroUuctton 

of style. In the Lyric ; at its best, one gets the gush of 
pure song ; the overflow of that invisible stream of poe- 
try which flows through the life of man as rivulets 
flow through the earth. The careless rapture of the 
songs which Shakspeare scatters through the plays 
is a quality which brings with it the freslmess of 
unwasted emotions, of an imagination which runs 
almost wiconsciously into a music as instinctive as 
the note of the bobolink or the lark, as free and 
buoyant as the ripple of moimtain streams. And yet 
nothing which the poet has left us furnishes more in- 
dubitable evidence of his genius. 

The lyre is the universal instrument ; its supreme 
masters have been few, but all the world knows and 
loves it, because, more intimately than any other in- 
strument, it gives voice to the sorrows and joys of 
life. The national hymns which have touched the 
sowces of patriotic emotion from the days of Tyrtceus 
to those of Kbrner and of " The Watch on the Rhine "; 
the odes which have celebrated great occasions or given 
a noble setting to commanding thoughts ; the love 
songs of the troubadour, the trouvere, the minnesinger ; 
the songs of nature ; the hymns of praise ; the elegies 

[XV] 



31ntroUuctton 

from Bion to Matthew Arnold ; the sonnets ; the vast 
volume of songs whicli children learn and which re- 
turn to their elders in quiet hours and solitary places, 
— all these forms of verse indicate the range of the 
Lyric and remind us that it is closer to us and means 
more to most me?i, day by day, than any other form of 
poetry. To English readers it recalls the greatest names 
and the most ravishing verse in our literature ; it re- 
minds orie of Shakspeare, Milton, Herrick, Carew, Cra- 
shaw, Burns, Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, Tennyson. 
But many as are the forms of the Lyric, it has cer- 
tain characteristics which everywhere mark it, and in 
which lie the sources of its charm. The true Lyric 
presents to the imagination a single thought, feeling, 
situation, or experience. At its best its concentration 
gives it the entire power of the highest poetry ; it is 
like a deep, narrow stream which covers but a little 
surface in its flow, but has the speed of an arrow. 
Not a line is superfluous, not a word wasted. In 
the famous song in "Measure for Measure, 1 ' distinct- 
ness of outline, condensation of emotion, imaginative 
suggcstivc?icss, arc combined in a perfection of form 
which is one of the finalities of language: 

[xvi] 



iflntro&uction 

Take, oh take those lips away 
That so sweetly were foresworn f 

And those eyes, like break of day, 
Lights that do mislead the morn. 

But my kisses bring again, 

Seals of love, but sealed in vain. 

A kindred precision and imaginative freedom char- 
acterize Wordsworth' s lines to the "Daffodils." The 
scene, the silence, the sentiment t are brought home in 
lines how few and with what simplicity of means ! 
Nothing coicid be more poetic than the material, noth- 
ing more free from artifice than the method. The 
poet had but a single picture in his mind and he 
has conveyed it to ns as if it were the only picture in 
the world. Shelley s " The Cloud" and Keats " Ode 
on a Grecian Urn " include a larger group of details 
and carry the mind over a wider surface of imagery, 
but every word makes the ce7itral idea more clear and 
deepens the single impression which the poet is striv- 
ing to produce. 

A poetic form so responsive to individual tempera- 
ment, so reflective of individual experience, could 

[xvii] 



fta 



^Introduction 

hardly fail to disclose the impress, in subtle no less 
than in obvious ways, of general intellectual and 
emotioiial conditions ; for the more highly gifted a 
man is, the more sensitive is lie to the deeper im- 
pulses and tende?icies of the time in which he lives. 
He may not move with those te?idencies ; lie may even 
oppose tlicm ; but whether in harmony with them or 
in antagonism to them, he will, in ways past his own 
knowledge, be affected by them. These formative te?i- 
deficies are often sought in the dnft of public affairs, 
in the stormy currents of public opinion, but they more 
often flow far beloiu the surface which is stirred by 
these obvious movements. Indeed, so deep and Jiidden 
is the central tendency of an age that it often becomes 
discernible only after a long interval of time ; the 
men who are affected by it often fail to discover it in 
spite of the most eager searching. There are, more- 
over, in different periods, atmospheric qualities which 
escape contemporary attention, but which give the ex- 
pression of the life of a period in all forms of art 
a distinctive and characteristic charm. How these 
qualities are interposed into the atmosphere of an 
age and diffused by it is a question which has rarely 
[ xviii ] 



3|ntroDuction 

been satisfactorily answered ; it is enough, at least for 
enjoyment, to recognize their presence and to feel their 
charm. 

The English Lyric has rarely lacked musical quality, 
but there is one long stretch of years during which this 
musical quality touched the limits of perfectio7i and 
the verse fairly sings itself into our hearts. Above 
the tumult of Elizabeth 's closing years and of the 
Revolution, the English Lyric is heard like the song 
of the lark on the edges of the storm. The lyrical 
note of that period has the music of the human voice 
in it, and even the untrained ear knows that it was 
written to be sung, not read. Why this singing 
note was at the command of almost every poet of 
quality between the birth of Shakspeare in 1564. 
and the death of Herrick in 1674, no one has yet told 
us. It was rarely heard before the earlier, and it 
has rarely been heard since the later date. The greater 
poets of this century have not, as a rule, compelled the 
composers to set their songs to music. Tennysoii, 
Swinburne, Shelley, are masters of the musical form, 
but they are not, primarily, singing poets. Their har- 
monies are perhaps mo7'e capacious than those of the 

[xix] 



31ntrotiuction 

later Elizabethan and Caroline poets ; but the singing 
note is rarely heard i?i them. 

For more than a century that note was constantly 
heard i?i English poetry. It came mysteriously and 
as mysterio?isly it went, a?id that is perhaps all that 
can be definitely said about it. Certain conditions or 
facts are, however, worth rememberi7ig in this connec- 
tion. TJiere was still, among Shakspeare 's contempo- 
raries and immediate successors, an instinctive joy in 
life ; a joy zuhich, under the stimidus of the imagi- 
nation, became a kind of rapture. TJiere zuas a frank 
delight in the beauty of the world, in the charms 
of women, in the pursuit of honour, in pleasure of 
every kind. The tragic aspects of experience zuere per- 
haps never more deeply felt, but zuith this clear vision 
of the shadows within the circle of fate there zuas 
also deep capacity for enjoyment. There zvas, more- 
over, an almost universal knowledge and love of 
music. The English people were still merry, and 
they still sang ; perhaps these tzvo facts bring us as 
near an explanation of the presence of the singing 
note in the poetry of the Seventeenth century as zve 
can hope to come. This zvas especially true of the 

[XX] 



^Introduction 

Elizabethan period. " Nobody could then pretend to 
a liberal educatio?i who had not made such progress 
in Musick as to be able to sing his part at sight ; a?id 
it was usual, wJien ladies and gentlemen met, for 
Madrigal books to be laid before them, and every one 
to sing their part." Campion, whose charming songs 
were largely recovered by that very intelligent editor, 
Mr. Bullen, from "Books of Airs," lets us into tJie 
mood if not into the practice of many of these singers 
when he says : " / have chiefly aimed to couple my 
words and notes lovingly togetJier." Words and notes 
were never far apart in those days ; poetry and music 
had not been divo7'ced. 

No poets ever differed more widely in aim, 
method, manner, and gift than Sliakspeare, 
yonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Suckling, Lovelace, 
Herrick, Carew, Campion, Waller, and their con- 
temporaries, and yet they hold as a common posses- 
sion the faculty of free, natural, spontaneous song ; 
song which is often wild, rapturous, totcched with 
a beauty which has appeared only at long intervals 
since their time ; the haunting beauty which often 
rests on Shakspeare's inimitable lyrics. The care- 

[xxi] 



3|ntroDuction 

less rapture, the delicious fres/iness, the unpremedi- 
tated sweetness of tins singing note, was not 
silenced by the tumult of war. It was heard in 
the prison from which Lovelace sent his tribute to 
divine Althea, and in which he found that 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage. 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 

But the long struggle brought about changes of 

temper a?id feeling which destroyed the old-time 

spirit of mirth, the old-time vivacity and gayety. 

The licentious and noisy mirth which followed the 

Restoration had little in common ivith the earlier 

delight in life; it inspired some brilliant comedies, 

but the stuff of whicJi true song is made was not 

in it. 

[ xxii ] 



^Introduction 

The Seventeenth-century song-writers were plain 
spoke?i, and they loved pleasure, but they were not 
corrupt ; there was too much vitality in them. The 
love of women, which had inexhaustible attraction 
for them, and which they have clothed in all man- 
ner of charms, is distinctly concrete in the sim- 
plicity and frankness with which it exalts beauty 
of face and form, but it does not rest in any kind 
of visible loveliness ; there is a touch of chivalry, of 
romance, of exaltation, of mysticism in it. It is 
frank and often sensuous, but the note of morbid 
passion, of diseased emotion, is absent. It is far 
more healthful than a great deal of verse which 
is more guarded in expression, because it is natu- 
ral, and it is, for the most part, innocent. These 
old poets had a wholesome love of the beauty of 
life, and it must be frankly said of them, that their 
dealing with certain forms of that beauty was far 
more healthful than the manner and attitude of some 
of their Puritan successors. They felt the rich loveli- 
ness of the world, but they knew also that it was 
fleeting. It was Herrick, whose hand was some- 
times far too free, who said: 
[ xxiii ] 



3|ntroDuctton 

In this world, this Isle of Dreams, 
While we sit by sorrow's streams, 
Tears and terrors are our themes ; 

and it was Carew who cried out, in one of the 
finest outbursts of lyrical emotion: 

Oh, love me then, and now begin it, 
Let us not lose this present minute ; 
For time and age will work that wrack 
Which time nor age shall ne'er call back. 

It is this union of deeper feeling with gayety of 

spirit and vivacity of temper, which gives these 

masters of the singing lyric their enduri7ig cliarm. 

They have consummate skill, and yet they seem to 

have caught the fresh, untaught melody of the birds. 

They arc capable of complete abandon, and yet they 

never lose the instinct for order and symmetry ; 

they are as free from self-consciousness as the zvild 

woodland songsters, whose notes we hear in their 

songs ; they preserve for us the dewy freshness of 

a morning hour, all too fleet, as we look back 

to it from the cares and labours of the modem 

world. They had the magic of style because their 
[ xxiv ] 



3|ntrotmetion 

hearts were young. In our serious time, when 
even the study of literature tends to become a 
strenuous endeavour rather than a free and joy- 
ous communing zvith the human spirit in its 
greatest moments and its freest moods, attention 
cannot be called too often to these poets of love 
and ho7iour a?id the beauty of the world; and no 
apology is needed to accompany or explain a new 
excursion into a field already often traversed. 

It is worth while sometimes to sit in the woods 
and listen to the stir of leaves a7id the notes of 
unseen birds without any thought of botany or 
ornithology. It is worth while to feel again the 
rapture of the morning, while care and toil are 
forgotten. 

Good morrow to the day so fair, 
Good morrow, sir, to you; 
Good morrow to mine own torn hair, 
Bedabbled with the dew. 

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE. 



[xxv] 






r 




Lullaby of a Loier 

Sing lullaby, as women do 

With which they bring their babes to rest ; 
And lullaby can I sing too, 
As womanly as can the best. 
With lullaby they still the child; 
And if I be not much beguiled, 
Full many wanton babes have I 
Which must be stilled with lullaby. 

First, lullaby my youthful years ; 

It is now time to go to bed, 
For crooked age and hoary hairs, 

Have now the haven within my head, 
[i] 



ilullabp of a ilotoer 

With lullaby then Youth be still, 
With lullaby content thy will ; 
Since courage quails, and come behind; 
Go, sleep ! and so beguile thy mind. 



Next, lullaby my gazing Eyes, 

Which wonted were to glance apace ; 
For every glass may now suffice 
To show the furrows in my face. 
With lullaby then wink awhile, 
With lullaby your looks beguile ; 
Let no fair face, or beauty bright, 
Entice you eft with vain delight. 



And lullaby my wanton Will, 

Let Reason's rule now rein my thought, 
Since all too late I find by skill 

How dear I have thy fancies bought. 
With lullabv now take thine ease, 
With lullaby thy doubt appease; 
For trust in this, — if thou be still, 
My body shall obey thy will. 
[*] 



Lullaby of a ILotoer 

Thus lullaby my Youth, mine Eyes, 

My Will, my ware and all that was, 
I can no more delays devise, 

But welcome pain, let pleasure pass. 
With lullaby now take you leave, 
With lullaby your dreams deceive ; 
And when you rise with waking eye, 
Remember then this lullaby. 

— George Gascoigne. 




[33 




i^eart and ^>oul 

O fair ! O sweet ! when I do look on thee, 

In whom all joys so well agree, 
Heart and soul do sing in me. 

This you hear is not my tongue, 
Which once said what I conceived, 
For it was of use bereaved, 

With a cruel answer strong. 
No ; though tongue to roof be cleaved, 

Fearing lest he chastised be, 

Heart and soul do sing in me. 



O fair ! O sweet ! when I do look on thee. 
In whom all joys so well agree, 

Heart and soul do sing in me. 
Just accord all music makes ; 

[4] 



C?rart anu S>oul 

In thee just accord excelleth, 

Where each part in such peace dwelleth, 
One of other, beauty takes. 

Since, then, truth to all minds telleth 
That in thee lives harmony, 
Heart and soul do sing in me. 



O fair ! O sweet ! when I do look on thee, 
In whom all joys so well agree, 

Heart and soul do sing in me. 

They that heaven have known do say, 

That whoso that grace obtaineth, 

To see what fair sight there reigneth, 
Forced are to sing alway : 

So then, since that heaven remaineth 
In thy face I plainly see, 
Heart and soul do sing in me. 



O fair ! O sweet ! when I do look on thee, 
In whom all joys so well agree, 

Heart and soul do sing in me. 
Sweet, think not I am at ease, 
[5] 



I^eart ant> £>oul 

For because my chief part singeth ; 

This song from death's sorrow springeth, 
As to swan in last disease : 

For no dumbness nor death bringeth 
Stay to true love's melody : 
Heart and soul do sing in me. 

— Sir Philip Sidney. 




[6] 





ING out your bells, let mourning shows 
be spread. 
For love is dead : 

All Love is dead, infected 
With plague of deep disdain ; 

Worth, as naught worth, rejected, 
And faith fair scorn doth gain. 
From so ungrateful fancy, 
From such a female frenzy, 
From them that use men thus, 
Good Lord, deliver us ! 

Weep, neighbours, weep ; do you not hear it 

said 
That Love is dead ? 

[7] 



& Dirge 

His deathbed, peacock's Folly ; 
His winding sheet is Shame ; 

His will, False Seeming wholly ; 
His sole executor, Blame. 

From so ungrateful fancy, 

From such a female frenzy, . 

From them that use men thus, 

Good Lord, deliver us ! 

Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, 
For Love is dead ; 

Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth 
My mistress' marble heart ; 

Which epitaph containeth, 
'Her eyes were once his dart.' 

From so ungrateful fancy, 

From such a female frenzy, 

From them that use men thus, 

Good Lord, deliver us ! 

Alas, I lie ; rage hath this error bred ; 
Love is not dead ; 

Love is not dead, but sleepeth, 
In her unmatched mind, 

[8] 



2E>irge 

Where she his counsel keepeth, 
Till due deserts she find. 

Therefore from so vile fancy, 
To call such wit a frenzy, 
Who Love can temper thus, 
Good Lord, deliver us. 

— Sir Philip Sidney. 




[9] 




TELLA, the only planet of my light, 
Light of my life, and life of my de- 
sire, 
Chief good whereto my hope doth 
only 'spire, 
World of my wealth, and heav'n of my 

delight ; 
Why dost thou spend the treasure of thy 

spite 
With voice more fit to wed Amphion's 
lyre, 

Seeking to quench in me the noble fire 
Fed by thy worth, and kindled by thy sight ? 
And all in vain: for while thy breath most 

sweet 
With choicest words, thy words with reasons 

rare, 
Thy reasons firmly set on Virtue's feet, 
Labor to kill in me this killing care 
O think I then, what paradise of joy 
It is, so fair a virtue to enjoy ! 

— Sir Philip Sidney. 
[IO] 



/ 




Y true-love hath my heart, and I have 
his, 
By just exchange one for another 
given : 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot 

miss, 
There never was a better bargain driven : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I 
have his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in 
one, 
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
I cherish his because in me it bides : 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

— Sir Philip Sidney. 



["] 




HAT bird so sings, yet does so wail ? 
O 'tis the ravished nightingale. 

J u g> j u g> j u g> j u g> teren," she 
cries, 
And still her woes at midnight rise. 
Brave prick song ! who is't now we 

hear ? 
None but the lark so shrill and clear ; 
Now at heaven's gates she claps her 

wings, 
The morn not waking till she sings. 
Hark ! hark ! with what a pretty throat 
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note ; 
Hark how the jolly cuckoo sing, 
Cuckoo to welcome in the spring ; 
Cuckoo to welcome in the spring ! 

— John Lyly. 



[»] 




UPID and my Campaspe play'd 
At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid : 
He stakes his quiver, bow, and 
arrows, 
His mother's doves, and team of spar- 
rows ; 
Loses them too ; then down he throws 
The coral of his lip, the rose 
Growing on's cheek (but none knows 

how); 
With these, the crystal of his brow, 
And then the dimple on his chin ; 
All these did my Campaspe win : 
And last he set her both his eyes — 
She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 
O Love, has she done this to thee ? 
What shall, alas ! become of me ? 

— John Lyly. 



[«3] 




Spring and jttelanc^oty 

The earth, late choked with showers, 

Is now arrayed in green ; 

Her bosom springs with flowers, 

The air dissolves her teen ; 

The heavens laugh at her glory : 
Yet bide I sad and sorry. 

The woods are decked with leaves, 
And trees are clothed gay ; 
And Flora crowned with sheaves 
With oaken boughs doth play, 

Where I am clad in black 

In token of my wrack. 

[H] 



Spring ana spelanctioty 

The birds upon the trees 

Do sing with pleasant voices, 

And chant in their degrees 

Their loves and lucky choices ; 
When I, whilst they are singing, 
With sighs mine arms am wringing. 

The thrushes seek the shade, 

And I my fatal grave ; 

Their flight to heaven is made, 

My walk on earth I have ; 

They free, I thrall; they jolly, 

I sad and pensive wholly. 

— Thomas Lodge. 




[>5] 




Love in my bosom, like a bee. 

Doth suck his sweet ; 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 
Now with his feet. 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
His bed amidst my tender breast ; 
My kisses are his daily feast, 
And yet he robs me of my rest: 
Ah ! wanton, will ye ? 



And if I sleep, then percheth he 

With pretty flight, 
And makes his pillow of my knee 

The livelong night. 
[,6] 



Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; 
He music plays if so I sing ; 
He lends me every lovely thing, 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: 
Whist, wanton, will ye ? 



Else I with roses every day 
Will whip you hence, 
And bind you, when you long to play, 
For your offence ; 
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in ; 
I'll make you fast it for your sin ; 
I'll count your power not worth a pin ; 
— Alas ! what hereby shall I win, 
If he gainsay me ? 



What if I beat the wanton boy 

With many a rod? 
He will repay me with annoy, 
Because a god. 
Then sit thou safely on my knee, 
c [17] 



And let thy bower my bosom be ; 
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, 
O Cupid ! so thou pity me, 
Spare not, but play thee ! 

— Thomas Lodge. 




[18] 



sgOVE guards the roses of thy lips, 
tX And flies about them like a bee : 
B If I approach he forward skips, 
And if I kiss he stingeth me. 

Love in thine eyes doth build his 
bower, 
And sleeps within their pretty shine ; 
And if I look the boy will lour, 

And from their orbs shoots shafts 
divine. 

Love works thy heart within his fire, 
And in my tears doth firm the 
same; 
And if I tempt it will retire, 

And of my plaints doth make a 
game. 

[19] 



Willis 

Love ! let me cull her choicest flowers, 

And pity me, and calm her eye ! 
Make soft her heart ! dissolve her lours ! 

Then will I praise thy deity. 
But if thou do not, Love ! I'll truly serve her 
In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her. 

— Thomas Lodge. 




[*>] 




UPID abroad was 'lated in the night, 
His wings were wet with ranging 
in the rain ; 
Harbour he sought : to me he took 
his flight 

To dry his plumes. I heard the boy- 
complain ; 

I oped the door, and granted his 
desire ; 

I rose myself, and made the wag a 
fire. 

Looking more narrow, by the fire's flame, 
I spied his quiver hanging by his back ; 
Doubting the boy might my misfortune frame, 
I would have gone, for fear of further 
wrack ; 
But what I dread, did me, poor wretch, 

betide, 
For forth he drew an arrow from his side. 

[21] 



"CupiD abroad teas? 'late* in tlje nigt)t" 

He pierced the quick, and I began to start : 

A pleasing wound, but that it was too high ; 

His shaft procured a sharp, yet sugared smart. 

Away he flew, for why, his wings were dry ; 

And left the arrow sticking in my breast, 

That sore I grieved I welcomed such a guest. 

— Robert Greene. 




[«] 



^toeet Content 

<3 » d> 

WEET are the thoughts that savour 

of content; 
The quiet mind is richer than a 

crown ; 
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber 

spent ; 
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry 

frown : 
Such sweet content, such minds, such 

sleep, such bliss, 
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do 

miss. 

The homely house that harbours quiet rest, 
The cottage that affords nor pride nor care, 
The mean that 'grees with country music best, 
The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare, — 
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : 
A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 

— Robert Greene. 




CiDola 

Are they shadows that we see ? 
And can shadows pleasure give ? 
Pleasures only shadows be, 
Cast by bodies we conceive, 
And are made the things we deem 
In those figures which they seem. 

But these pleasures vanish fast 
Which by shadows are exprest ; 
Pleasures are not if they last, 
In their passage is their best: 
Glory is most bright and gay 
In a flash and so away. 
[*4] 



(Efoola 

Feed apace then, greedy eyes, 
On the wonder you behold; 
Take it sudden as it flies, 
Though you take it not to hold: 
When your eyes have done their part, 
Thought must length it in the heart. 

— Samuel Daniel. 




[*S] 




ARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the 
sable Night, 
Brother to Death, in silent dark- 
ness born, 
Relieve my languish, and restore the light ; 
With dark forgetting of my care return. 

And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured 

youth : 
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 
Without the torment of the night's untruth. 

Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, 
To model forth the passions of the morrow ; 
Never let rising Sun approve you liars, 
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow: 

Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 
And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 

— Samuel Daniel. 

[26] 




<x <& «• 

EAUTY, sweet love ! is like the 
morning dew, 
Whose short refresh upon the 
tender green, 
Cheers for a time, but still the sun doth 
show 
And straight is gone as it had never 
been. 
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest 
flourish ; 
Short is the glory of the blushing 
rose, — 
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish 
Yet which at length thou must be forced to 
lose ; 
When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years, 
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the 
earth, 
And that in Beauty's lease expired appears, 

The date of age, the kalends of our dearth; — 
But ah, no more ! this must not be foretold ; 
For women grieve to think they must be old. 

— Samuel Daniel, 
[•73 




opting 

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant 

king; 
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in 

a ring, 
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do 

sing, 

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 

The palm and may make country houses gay, 
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all 

day, 
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, put, we-o-witta-woo. 

[28] 



Spring 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our 

feet, 
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, 
In every street these tunes our ears do greet, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 
Spring ! the sweet Spring ! 

— Thomas Nash. 




[*9] 




^ottg of jHotto anU ptvUn 

Motto. Tell me, thou skilful shepherd swain ! 

Who's yonder in the valley set ? 
Perkin. O, it is She whose sweets do stain 

The lily, rose, the violet. 

Motto. Why doth the Sun against his kind, 
Stay his bright chariot in the skies ? 

Perkin. He pauseth almost stricken blind 
With gazing on her heavenly eyes. 

Motto. Why do the flocks forbear their food 
Which sometime was their chief delight? 

Perkin. Because they need no other good 
That live in presence of her sight. 

[30] 



g>ong of apotto ana fBerfciu 

Motto. How come these flowers to flourish still, 
Not withering with sharp Winter's death ? 

Perkin. She hath robb'd Nature of her skill, 

And comforts all things with her breath. 

Motto. Why slide these brooks so slow away, 
As swift as the wild roe that were ? 

Perkin. O, muse not, shepherd ! that they stay, 
When they her heavenly voice do hear. 

Motto. From whence come all these goodly 
swains 

And lovely girls attired in green? 
Perkin. From gathering garlands on the plains 

To crown thy Syl ; our shepherd's Queen. 

The sun that lights this world below, 

Flocks, brooks, and flowers can witness bear, 

These shepherds and these nymphs do know, 
That Sylvia is as chaste as fair. 

— Michael D 7' ay ton. 



[3>] 




C^e ^ajsjsionate ^ep^ett) to ^te Lobe 

Come live with me and be my Love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hills and valleys, dale and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 

There will we sit upon the rocks 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

There will I make thee beds of roses 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. 

[32] 



®tje JBaMonate £>\)tp\)txb to t)i0 Ilote 

A gown made of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull, 
Fair lined slippers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold. 

A belt of straw and ivy buds 
With coral clasps and- amber studs : 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me and be my Love. 

Thy silver dishes for thy meat 
As precious as the gods do eat, 
Shall on an ivory table be 
Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning : 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and be my Love. 

— Christopher Marlowe. 



[33] 




AKE, O take those lips away 
That so sweetly were forsworn, 
And those eyes, like break of day, 
Lights that do mislead the morn : 
But my kisses bring again, 

Bring again — 
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, 

Seal'd in vain ! 

— William Shakespeare. 



[34] 



atfel'js $>om$ 




£s& 



•HERE the bee sucks there suck I : 
In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
There I couch, when owls do cry : 
On the bat's back I do fly- 
After summer merrily. 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
Under the blossom that hangs on 
the bough ! 

— William Shakespeare. 



[35] 



"Come unto ttym ^ellotn $an&0" 




OME unto these yellow sands, 
And then take hands : 
Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd 
The wild waves whist, 
Foot it featly here and there ; 
And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear. 
Hark, hark ! 

Bow-bow. 
The watch-dogs bark : 

Bow-wow. 
Hark, hark! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow ! 

— William Shakespeare. 



[36] 



"iFull fatijom fftoe tty father lit* 






ULL fathom five thy father lies : 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes : 
Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 
Hark! now I hear them, — 
Ding, dong, bell. 

— William Shakespeare. 



[37] 



*©an ant) moxmn 




IGH no more, ladies, sigh no more, - 
Men were deceivers ever, 
One foot in sea and one on shore, 
To one thing constant never : 
— Then sigh not so, but let them go, 
And be you blithe and bonny, 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no more, 
Of dumps so dull and heavy ; 
The fraud of men was ever so 
Since summer first was leafy : 
— Then sigh not so, but let them go, 
And be you blithe and bonny, 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 

— William Shakespeare. 



[38] 




Spring 

When daisies pied and violets blue 
And lady-smocks all silver-white 
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue 
Do paint the meadows with delight, 
The cuckoo then, on every tree, 
Mocks married men ; for thus sings he, 

Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo, cuckoo: — O word of fear, 
Unpleasing to a married ear ! 



When shepherds pipe on oaten straws 
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, 
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws 
[39] 



Spring 

And maidens bleach their summer smocks, 
The cuckoo then, on every tree, 
Mocks married men ; for thus sings he, 

Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo, cuckoo : — O word of fear, 
Unpleasing to a married ear ! 

— William Shakespeare. 




[40] 






• . . . V 




minttv 




HEN icicles hang by the wall 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 
And milk comes frozen home in pail ; 
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl 
Tu-whit ! 
Tu-who ! A merry note ! 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

When all about the wind doth blow, 
And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

And Marians nose looks red and raw; 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl — 
Then nightly sings the staring owl 

Tu-whit ! 
Tu-who ! A merry note ! 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

— William Shakespeare. 
[4«] 




<v # v> 

LOW, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude ; 
Thy tooth is not so keen 
Because thou art not seen, 
Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the 

green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving 
mere folly : 
Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
This life is most jolly. 



Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot: 
Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remember'd not. 



« HBloto, bloto, tfjou tointcit toinu " 

Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green 

holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere 
folly : 
Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
This life is most jolly. 

— William Shakespeare. 




[43] 





NDER the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And turn his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat — 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats 
And pleased with what he gets — 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

— William Shakespeare. 



[44] 




r^^^ 



ARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate 
sings, 
And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
And winking May-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes : 
With everything that pretty bin. 
My lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise. 

— William Shakespeare. 



[45] 



tft&ele 




EAR no more the heat o' the sun 
Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages 
Golden lads and girls all must, 
As chimney-sweepers come to dust. 



Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 

To thee the reed is as the oak : 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 
[46] 



jFtode 

Fear no more the lightning-flash 

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

— William Shakespeare. 




[47] 



I 



^ttria 




HO is Sylvia? what is she, 

That all our swains commend her ? 
Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 

The heaven such grace did lend her, 
That she might admired be. 

Is she kind as she is fair ? 

For beauty lives with kindness : 
Love doth to her eyes repair, 

To help him of his blindness ; 
And, being help'd, inhabit there. 



Then to Sylvia let us sing, 

That Sylvia is excelling ; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling : 
To her let us garlands bring. 

— William Shakespeare. 

[48] 




are you 



MISTRESS mine, where 

roaming ? 
O stay and hear ! your true-love's 
coming 
That can sing both high and low ; 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 
Journeys end in lovers meeting — 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love ? 'tis not hereafter ; 
Present mirth hath present laughter; 
What's to come is still unsure: 
In delay there lies no plenty, — 
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, 
Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

— William Shakespeare. 



[49] 




^>OttQ Of £UtOtyCU0 

When daffodils begin to peer, 

With heigh ! the doxy over the dale, 

Why then comes in the sweet o' the year; 
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. 

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, 

With heigh ! the sweet birds, O, how they 
sing ! 
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ; 
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. 
[5o] 



W$t £>ong of #utol£cu$ 

The lark, that tirra-lyra chants, 

With heigh ! with heigh ! the thrush and the 

Are summer songs for me and my aunts, 
While we lie tumbling in the hay. 

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? 

The pale moon shines by night : 
And when I wander here and there, 

I then do most go right. 

If tinkers may have leave to live 

And bear the sow-skin budget, 
Then my account I well may give 

And in the stocks avouch it. 

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, 

And merrily hent the stile-a : 
A merry heart goes all the day, 

Your sad, tires in a mile-a. 

— William Shakespeare. 



[50 



OME away, come away, Death, 

And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 

Fly away, fly away, breath ; 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 




My shroud of white, stuck all with 
yew, 

O prepare it ! 
My part of death, no one so true 

Did share it. 



Not a flower, not a flower sweet 
On my black coffin let there be strown ; 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be 
thrown : 

A thousand thousand sighs to save, 

Lay me, O where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, 

To weep there. 

— William Shakespeare. 

[s*] 



_ 




HAT time of year thou mayst in me 
behold 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, 
do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against 

the cold, 
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet 
birds sang: 

In me thou seest the twilight of such day 
As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
Which by and by black night doth take away, 
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest : 

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
Consumed with that which it was nourish* d by : 

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love 

more strong, 
To love that well which thou must leave ere 

long. _ William Shakespeare. 

[53] 




ET me not to the marriage of true 
minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not 
love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to re- 



move : 



O no ! it is an ever-fixed mark 
That looks on tempests, and is never 
shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 
Whose worth's unknown, although his height 
be taken. 

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and 

cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come; 

[54] 



♦♦ fltt me not to tfce marriage of true minus " 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom : — 

If this be error, and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

— William Shakespeare. 




[55] 



<5 G <* 

HALL I compare thee to a summer's 
day ? 
Thou art more lovely and more tem- 
perate : 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds 

of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short 
a date : 

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven 
shines, 

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd : 
And every fair from fair sometime declines, 
By chance, or nature's changing course, un- 
trimm'd. 

But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; 

[;6] 



« ^all 3! compare tytt to a tummzt'S Da^ * 

Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his 

shade, 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest: — 

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

— William Shakespeare. 




[57] 




HEN in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest 

wights, 
And beauty making beautiful old 
rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely 
knights ; 

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's 

best 
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of 
brow, 
I see their antique pen would have exprest 
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. 



So all their praises are but prophecies 
Of this our time, all, you prefiguring ; 
[58] 



« Wtytn in ti)t chronicle of toatftel) time " 

And for they look'd but with divining eyes, 
They had not still enough your worth to sing : 

For we, which now behold these present days, 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to 

praise. 

— William Shakespeare. 




[59] 



Co Celfa 




RINK to me only with thine eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup 
And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
I would not change for thine. 

"^ I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honouring thee 

As giving it a hope that there 

It could not wither' d be ; 

But thou thereon didst only breathe 

And sent'st it back to me ; 

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee ! 

— Ben Jonson. 

[60] 




C^e ^toeet Neglect 

Still to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast : 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed: 

Lady, it is to be presumed; 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 



Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace ; 
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me, 
Than all the adulteries of art, 
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

— Ben Jonson. 
[6.] 




First Nymph. 

Thus, thus begin, the yearly rites 
Are due to Pan on these bright nights : 
His morn now riseth and invites 
To sport, to dances, and delights : 

All envious and profane, away ! 

This is the shepherds' holiday. 

Second Nymph. 

Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground 
With every flower, yet not confound ; 
The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse, 
Bright day's-eyes, and the lips of cows, 
[62] 



The garden-star, the queen of May, 
The rose, to crown the holiday. 

Third Nymph. 

Drop, drop you violets, change your hues 
Now red, now pale, as lovers use, 
And in your death go out as well, 
As when you lived unto the smell : 

That from your odour all may say, 
This is the shepherds' holiday. 

— Ben Jonson. 




[63] 



C *fr 

LOW, slow, fresh fount, keep time 
with my salt tears : 
Yet slower, yet : O faintly gentle 
springs : 
List to the heavy part the music bears, 
Woe weeps out her division, when she 
sings, 

Droop herbs and flowers, 
Fall grief in showers, 
Our beauties are not ours ; 
O I could still 
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, 

Drop, drop, drop, drop, 
Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil. 

— Ben Jonson. 




[6+] 



an flDDe to ^imjself 




HERE dost thou careless lie 

Buried in ease and sloth ? 
Knowledge^ that sleep, doth die ; 
And this security, 

It is the common moth, 
That eats on wits and arts, and (so) 
destroy them both. 

Are all the Aonian springs 

Dried up ? lies Thespia waste ? 
Doth Clarius* harp want strings, 
That not a nymph now sings ? 
Or droop they as disgraced, 
To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies 
defaced ? 

If hence thy silence be, 

As 'tis too just a cause, 
Let this thought quicken thee : 
[65] 



2ln ®&e to tyimself 

Minds that are great and free 
Should not on fortune pause ; 
'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause. 

What though the greedy fry- 
Be taken with false baits 

Of worded balladry, 

And think it poesy ? 

That die with their conceits, 
And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. 

Then take in hand thy lyre, 
Strike in thy proper strain, 
With Japhet's line aspire 
Sol's chariot for new fire, 
To give the world again : 
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. 

And since our dainty age, 

Cannot endure reproof, 
Make not thyself a page, 
To that strumpet the stage, 

But sing high and aloof, 
Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's 

hoof. _ Ben Jonson. 

[66] 



C^e Untttation 



IVE with me still, and all the meas- 



ures 




Played to by the spheres I'll teach 
thee; 



Let's but thus dally, all the pleasures 
The moon beholds her man shall reach 
thee. 

Dwell in mine arms, aloft we'll hover, 

And see fields of armies fighting : 
Oh, part not from me ! I'll discover 
There all but books of fancy's writing. 



Be but my darling, Age to free thee 
From her curse shall fall a-dying ; 
Call me thy empress, Time to see thee 
Shall forget his art of flying. 

— Thomas Dekker. 
[«7] 



<0ooU>0pora>tD 




ACK, clouds, away, and welcome day. 
With night we banish sorrow ; 
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, 
aloft 
To give my Love good-morrow ! 
Wings from the wind to please her 
mind 
Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; 
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, 
To give my Love good-morrow ; 

To give my Love good-morrow 
Notes from them both I'll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, 
Sing, birds, in every furrow; 

And from each hill, let music shrill 
Give my fair Love good-morrow ! 
[68] 



Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! 

You pretty elves, amongst yourselves 
Sing my fair Love good-morrow; 
To give my Love good-morrow 
Sing, birds, in every furrow ! 

— Thomas Heywood. 




[69] 




Co $ftlU* 

Ye little birds that sit and sing 

Amidst the shady valleys, 
And see how Phyllis sweetly walks 

Within her garden alleys ; 
Go, pretty birds, about her bower; 
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower 
Ah me ! methinks I see her frown ; 

Ye pretty wantons, warble. 



Go, tell her through your chirping bills 

As you by me are bidden, 
To her is only known by love 

Which from the world is hidden. 
[7o] 



Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, 
See that your notes strain not too low, 
For still methinks I see her frown ; 
Ye pretty wantons, warble. 

Go, tune your voices' harmony, 

And sing I am her lover ; 
Strain loud and sweet, that every note 

With sweet content may move her. 
And she that hath the sweetest voice, 
Tell her I will not change my choice : 
Yet still methinks I see her frown ; 

Ye pretty wantons, warble. 

Oh fly ! make haste ! see, see, she falls 

Into a pretty slumber; 
Sing round about her rosy bed, 

That waking she may wonder ; 
Say to her 'tis her lover true, 
That sendeth love to you, to you; 
And when you hear her kind reply, 

Return with pleasant warblings. 

— Thomas Heywood. 

[713 




EAUTY clear and fair, 
Where the air 
Rather like a perfume dwells ; 
Where the violet and the rose 
Their blue veins in blush disclose, 
And come to honour nothing else ; 



Where to live near, 

And planted there, 

Is to live, and still live new ; 
Where to gain a favour is 
More than light, perpetual bliss, — 

Make me live by serving you. 

Dear, again back recall 

To this light, 
A stranger to himself and all. 
Both the wonder and the story 
Shall be yours, and eke the glory; 
I am your servant, and your thrall. 

— Beaumont and Fletcher. 

[7»3 



3|nfcocatfon to £>leep 




ARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer 

of all woes, 

Brother to Death, sweetly thyself 

dispose 

On this afflicted prince ; fall like a cloud 

In gentle showers; give nothing that is 

loud 
Or painful to his slumbers ; — easy, sweet, 
And as a purling stream, thou son of 

night, 
Pass by his troubled senses ; sing his 
pain 
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain ; 
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide, 
And kiss him into slumber like a bride ! 

— Beaumont and Fletcher. 



[73] 




ftttitt to pm 

Sing his praises that doth keep 

Our flocks from harm, 
Pan, the father of our sheep ; 

And arm in arm 
Tread we softly in a round, 
While the hollow neighb'ring ground 
Fills the music with her sound. 

Pan, O great god Pan, to thee 

Thus do we sing : 
Thou that keep'st us chaste and free, 

As the young spring. 
Ever be thy honour spoke, 
From that place the morn is broke, 
To that place day doth unyoke ! 

— Beaumont and Fletcher. 
[74] 



% < \ /fc ■ % r> f\ f% O <****» i ft fl i rt ft 1 *1 i *^ i *> ft ^*A <"* i rt i fw ^a 




«, ■ W P %J i v I V -i V 




flov Rummer Ctme 

Now the glories of the year 
May be viewed at the best, 
And the earth doth now appear 
In her fairest garments drest: 

Sweetly smelling plants and flowers 
Do perfume the garden bowers ; 
Hill and valley, wood and field, 
Mixed with pleasure profits yield. 



Much is found where nothing was, 
Herds on every mountain go, 
In the meadows flowery grass 
Makes both milk and honey flow; 
Now each orchard banquets giveth, 
Every hedge with fruit relieveth ; 
[75] 



jfor Rummer Qtimt 

And on every shrub and tree 
Useful fruits or berries be. 



Walks and ways which winter marr'd 
By the winds are swept and dried; 
Moorish grounds are now so hard 
That on them we safe may ride : 

Warmth enough the sun doth lend us, 
From his heat the shades defend us ; 
And thereby we share in these 
Safety, profit, pleasure, ease. 



Other blessings, many more, 

At this time enjoyed may be, 

And in this my song therefore 

Praise I give, O Lord ! to Thee : 
Grant that this my free oblation 
May have gracious acceptation, 

And that I may well employ 

Everything which I enjoy. 

— George Wither. 



[76] 




C^e flJanty ^eat* 

(5 » 6 



HALL I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman's fair ? 
Or make pale my cheeks with care 
'Cause another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than the day 
Or the flowery meads in May — 
If she think not well of me, 
What care I how fair she be? 

Shall my silly heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind; 
Or a well disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature? 

1771 



tEtje spattli? ^eatt 

Be she meeker, kinder, than 

Turtle-dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me, 

What care I how kind she be ? 



Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or her well-deservings known 
Make me quite forget mine own ? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may merit name of Best ; 
If she be not such to me, 
What care I how good she be ? 



'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die? 
She that bears a noble mind 
If not outward helps she finds, 
Thinks what with them he would do 
Who without them dares her woo ; 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I how great she be ? 

[78] 



W$t Scanty fymt 

Great or good, or kind or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair ; 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve; 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? 
— George Wither. 







[79] 



L ^w 




HOEBUS, arise ! 
And paint the sable skies 
With azure, white, and red : 
Rouse Memnon's mother from her 
Tithon's bed 
That she may thy career with roses 

spread : 
The nightingales thy coming each-where 

sing : 
Make an eternal Spring ! 
Give life to this dark world which lieth 
dead; 
Spread forth thy golden hair 
In larger locks than thou wast wont before, 
And emperor-like decore 
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair : 
Chase hence the ugly night 
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious 
light. 

[80] 



"ja&crims, arte*" 

— This is that happy morn, 
That day, long-wished day 
Of all my life so dark, 
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn 
And fates my hopes betray), 
Which, purely white, deserves 
An everlasting diamond should it mark. 

This is the morn should bring unto this grove j 

My Love, to hear and recompense my love. 
Fair King, who all preserves, 
But show thy blushing beams, 
And thou two sweeter eyes 
Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams 
Did once thy heart surprise. 
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: 
If that ye winds would hear 
A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, 
Your furious chiding stay ; 
Let Zephyr only breathe, 
And with her tresses play. 

— The winds all silent are, 
And Phoebus in his chair 
EnsafTroning sea and air 
Makes vanish every star: 

[81] 



Night like a drunkard reels 

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels : 

The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, 

The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue ; 

Here is the pleasant place — 

And nothing wanting is, save She, alas ! 

— William Drummond of HawthorncUn. 




[82] 







CtO**9 V.NAHTHW KOWA* 0f / 




RUST not, Sweet Soul ! those curled 
waves of gold 
With gentle tides which on your 
temples flow, 
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin 

snow, 
Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain 

enroird. 
Trust not those shining lights which 

wrought my woe, 
When first I did their burning rays be- 
hold; 
Nor voice whose sounds more strange effects 

do show 
Than of the Thracian harper have been told ! 
Look to this dying lily, fading rose, 
Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams 
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass 
rejoice 

[83] 



n Qtrutft not, §>tom §>oul 



And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes! 
The sweet tyrant that did kill those flowers 
Shall once, ay me, not spare that Spring of 
yours. 



William Drummond. 




[84] 




Ctye ^ong of Celati^ne 

Marina's gone and now sit I 

As Philomela on a thorn, 
Turned out of nature's livery, 

Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn : 
Only she sings not, while my sorrow can 
Breathe forth such notes as suit a dying swan. 

So shuts the marigold her leaves 

At the departure of the sun ; 
So from ti e honey-suckle sheaves 

The bee goes when the day is done ; 
[85] 



W$t §>ong of CelaU^ne 

So sits the turtle when she is but one, 
And so all woe, as I, since she is gone. 

To some few birds kind nature hath 
Made all the summer as one day ; 

Which once enjoy' d, cold winter's wrath, 
As night, they sleeping pass away. 

Those happy creatures are, they know not yet, 

The pain to be deprived, or to forget. 

I oft have heard men say there be 
Some, that with confidence profess 

The helpful Art of Memory; 

But could they teach forgetfulness, 

I'd learn, and try what further art could do 

To make me love her and forget her too. 

Sad melancholy, that persuades 

Men from themselves, to think they be 
Headless, or other body's shades, 

Hath long and bootless dwelt with me. 
For could I think she some idea were 
I still might love, forget, and have her here. 

[86] 



Ww g>ong of CelaD^ne 

For such she is not ; nor would I 
For twice as many torments more, 

As her bereaved company- 
Hath brought to those I felt before ; 

For then no future time might hap to know 

That she deserv'd, or I did love her so. 

Ye hours then, but as minutes be ! 

Though so I shall be sooner old, 
Till I those lovely graces see, 

Which but in her, can none behold. 
Then be an age ! That we may never try 
More grief in parting, but grow old and die. 

— William Browne. 




[«7] 




SK me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose ; 
For in your beauties orient deep 
These flowers, as in their causes, 
sleep. 



Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day ; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
These powers to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
The nightingale, when May is past; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

[88] 



"3sfe me no more tofiere 3flofee bestotos" 

Ask me no more where those stars light 
That downwards fall in dead of night; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west 
The phoenix builds her spicy nest; 
For unto you at last she flies, 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 

— Thomas Carew. 




[89] 



Co CeUa Ringing 




OU that think love can convey 
No other way, 
But through the eyes, into the heart, 
His fatal dart, 
Close up those casements and but hear 
This siren sing, 
And on the wing 
Of her sweet voice it shall appear 
That love can enter at the ear. 

Then unvail your eyes, behold 
The curious mould 
Where that voice dwells, and as we know, 
When the cocks crow, 
We freely may 
Gaze on the day, 
So may you when the music's done, 
Awake and see the rising sun. 

— Thomas Carew. 

[9°] 



©tjsoam Eetimteti 

E that loves a rosy cheek 
Or a coral lip admires, 

Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
Fuel to maintain his fires ; 

As old Time makes these decay, 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires : — 

Where these are not, I despise 
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 

— Thomas Carew. 



[91] 



Cljlorte in t^e ^noto 




SAW fair Chloris walk alone 
When feather' d rain came softly 

down, — 
Then Jove descended from his tower 
To court her in a silver shower ; 
The wanton snow flew to her breast, 
Like little birds into their nest ; 
But overcome with whiteness there, 
For grief it thaw'd into a tear ; 
Then, falling down her garment hem, 
To deck her, froze into a gem. 

— Thomas Carew. 



[9*] 




4$>s 



3©elij$t in Wovbtv 




SWEET disorder in the dress 
Kindles in clothes a wantonness : — 
A lawn about the shoulders thrown 
Into a fine distraction, — 
An erring lace, which here and there 
Enthrals the crimson stomacher, — 
A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
Ribbands to flow confusedly, — 
A winning wave, deserving note, 
In the tempestuous petticoat, — 
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
I see a wild civility, — 
Do more bewitch me, than when art 
Is too precise in every part. 

— Robert Her rick. 



[93] 



€o 9!uifa 



/^^^^^ 



ER lamp the glow-worm lend thee ! 
The shooting stars attend thee ! 
And the elves also, 
Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee ! 



No Will-o'-the-Wisp mislight thee! 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ! 

But on ! on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there's none to affright thee ! 



Let not the dark thee cumber ! 

What though the moon does slumber ? 
The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light, 

Like tapers clear without number. 
[94] 



®o 31ulta 

Then, Julia ! let me woo thee 
Thus, thus to come unto me : 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

— Robert Herrick. 




[95] 




Co ^eatiotojS 

Ye have been fresh and green, 
Ye have been filled with flowers ; 

And ye the walks have been 

Where maids have spent their hours. 

You have beheld how they 
With wicker arks did come 

To kiss and bear away 
The richer cowslips home. 



You've heard them sweetly sing, 
And seen them in a round ; 

Each virgin, like a Spring, 
With honeysuckles crowned. 
[96] 



But now we see none here 
Whose silvery feet did tread 

And with dishevell'd hair 

Adorn'd this smoother mead. 

Like unthrifts, having spent 
Your stock, and needy grown. 

You're left here to* lament 
Your poor estate alone. 

— Robert Herrick. 




[97] 




Co t^e a&ftetttk to mafee muc^ of Cfme 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying: 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, 

The higher he's a-getting, 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting. 



That age is best which is the first, 
When youth and blood are warmer; 

But being spent, the worse, and worst 
Times, still succeed the former. 
[98] 




'£wm 



ttfo ttje ^trgm$, to make muclj of time 

Then be not coy, but use your time, 
And while ye may, go marry : 

For having lost but once your prime, 
You may for ever tarry. 

— Robert Her rick. 




[99] 



Co tyz JRosse 




O, happy Rose, and interwove 
With other flowers, bind my Love 
Tell her too, she must not be 
Longer flowing, longer free, 
That so oft has fetter' d me. 

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands 
Of pearl and gold, to bind her hands : 
Tell her, if she struggle still, 
I have myrtle rods at will, 
For to tame, though not to kill. 



Take thou my blessing thus, and go 
And tell her this, — but do not so ! - — 
Lest a handsome anger fly 
Like a lightning from her eye, 
And burn thee up, as well as I. 

— Robert Herrick. 
[IOO] 



Co ©affoMljs 




AIR Daffodils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon : 
As yet the early-rising Sun 

Has not attain'd his noon. 

Stay, stay, 
Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the even-song; 
And, having pray'd together, we 
Will go with you along. 



We have short time to stay, as you, 
We have as short a Spring; 

As quick a growth to meet decay 
As you, or any thing. 

[IOI] 



tEo 2E>affoDtte 

We die, 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away 
Like to the Summer's rain ; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew 
Ne'er to be found again. 

— Robert Herrick, 




[102] 



Corttma'iS paying 




ET up, get up for shame ! The bloom- 
ing morn 
Upon her wings presents the god 
unshorn. 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-quilted colours through the 

air : 
Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see 
The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward 

the east, 

Above an hour since ; yet you not drest, 
Nay ! not so much as out of bed ? 
When all the birds have matins said, 
And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin, 
Nay, profanation, to keep in, — 
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day, 
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 
[ I0 3] 



Cormna'tf Raping 

Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen 
To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and 
green, 
And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
For jewels for your gown, or hair : 
Fear not ; the leaves will strew 
Gems in abundance upon you : 
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept : 
Come, and receive them while the light 
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: 
And Titan on the eastern hill 
Retires himself, or else stands still 
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in 

praying : 
Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come ; and coming, mark 
How each field turns a street ; each street a park 
Made green, and trimm'd with trees ; see how 
Devotion gives each house a bough 
Or branch : Each porch, each door, ere this 
An ark, a tabernacle is, 
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove ; 
[104] 



Cojtinna'0 spacing 

As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
Can such delights be in the street, 
And open fields, and we not see't ? 
Come, we'll abroad : and let's obey 
The proclamation made for May : 

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; 

But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying. 

There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day, 
But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 
A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 
Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream, 
Before that we have left to dream : 
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted 

troth, 
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : 
Many a green-gown has been given ; 
Many a kiss, both odd and even : 
Many a glance too has been sent 
From out the eye, Love's firmament: 
Many a jest told of the keys betraying 
This night, and locks pick'd : — Yet we're not 
a Maying. 



Cormna'tf spacing 

— Come, let us go, while we are in our prime; 
And take the harmless folly of the time ! 
We shall grow old apace, and die 
Before we know our liberty. 
Our life is short ; and our days run 
As fast away as does the sun : — 
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain 
Once lost, can ne'er be found again : 
So when or you or I are made 
A fable, song, or fleeting shade ; 
All love, all liking, all delight 
Lies drown'd with us in endless night. 
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, 
Come, my Corinna ! come, let's go a Maying. 

— Robert Herrick. 




[106] 



Co ©aijsiejs 

(3 » c* 

HUT not so soon ! the dull-eyed 
Night * 
Has not as yet begun, 
To make a seizure on the light 
Or to seal up the sun. 

No marigolds yet closed are, 
No shadows great appear, 

Nor doth the early shepherds' star, 
Shine like a spangle here. 

Stay but until my Julia close, 

Her life-begetting eye ; 
And let the whole world then dispose, 

Itself to live or die. 

— Robert Her rick. 



[107] 




Co ant^ea txtyo ma? commanti tym 
£«? C^iitg 

Bid me to live, and I will live 

Thy Protestant to be : 
Or bid me love, and I will give 

A loving heart to thee. 

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, 

A heart as sound and free 
As in the whole world thou canst find, 

That heart I'll give to thee. 

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, 

To honour thy decree : 
Or bid it languish quite away, 

And 't shall do so for thee. 
[108] 



®o 0nttjea 

Bid me to weep, and I will weep 

While I have eyes to see : 
And having none, yet I will keep 

A heart to weep for thee. 

Bid me despair, and I'll despair, 

Under that cypress tree : 
Or bid me die, and .1 will dare 

E'en Death, to die for thee. 

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, 

The very eyes of me, 
And hast command of every part, 

To live and die for thee. 

— Robert Herrick. 




[109] 



Co €)ne gating j% t»ajs €H& 




ELL me not Time hath played the 
thief 
Upon her beauty ! my belief 
Might have been mock'd, and I have 
been 
An heretic, if I had not seen. 
My Mistress is still fair to me, 
And now I all those graces see 
That did adorn her virgin brow : 
Her eye hath the same flame in's now 
To kill or save, — the chemist's fire 
Equally burns, so my desire ; 
Not any rosebud less within 
Her cheek ; the same snow on her chin ; 
Her voice that heavenly music bears 
First charmed my soul, and in my ears 
[no] 



®o ®ne saying 0(je toaa <*M& 

Did leave it trembling ; her lips are 

The self-same lovely twins they were ; — 

Often so many years I miss 

No flower in all my Paradise ; 

Time, I despise thy rage and thee, — 

Thieves do not always thrive, I see. 

— James Shirley. 




Cm] 



©egcrtptton of Cagtata 




IKE the violet, which alone 
Prospers in some happy shade ; 
My Castara lives unknowne, 
To no looser eye betray'd, 

For shee's to herselfe untrue, 
Who delights i' th' publicke view. 



Such is her beauty, as no arts 
Have enriched with borrowed grace, 
Her high birth no pride imparts, 
For she blushes in her place. 
Folly boasted a glorious blood, 
She is noblest being good. 

[112] 



- 



SDetfcription of Catftara 

Cautious, she knew never yet 

What a wanton courtship meant; 

Nor speaks bond to boast her wit, 

In her silence eloquent. 

Of herself survey she takes 

But 'tweene men no difference makes. 

She obeys with speedy 'will 

Her grave parents' wise commands, 

And so innocent that ill, 

She nor acts, nor understands. 

Women's feet runne still astray, 
If once to ill they know the way. 

She sails by that rocke, the court, 
Where oft honour splits her mast : 
And retir'dnesse thinks the port 
Where her fame may anchor cast. 
Vertue safely cannot sit 
Where vice is enthron'd for wit. 

She holds that day's pleasure best, 
Where sin waits not on delight; 
1 ["3] 



ascription of Caatara 

Without maske, or ball, or feast, 
Sweetly spends a winter's night. 

O'er that darknesse, whence is thrust 
Prayer and sleepe, oft governs lust. 

She her throne makes reason climbe, 

While wild passions captive lie ; 

And each article of time 

Her pure thoughts to Heaven flie : 
All her vowes religious be, 
All her love she vowes to me. 

— William Habbington. 




[»♦] 



flDn a (0irt)le 




HAT which her slender waist con- 
fined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
No monarch but would give his 
crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely deer : 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair: 
Give me but what this ribband bound, 
Take all the rest the Sun goes round. 

— Edmund Waller. 
["5] 




O, lovely Rose ! 
Tell her, that wastes her time and 
me, 
That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired : 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 



[116] 



♦♦ «5o, lotiel^ Hose " 

Then die ! that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee : 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 

— Edmund Waller. 




[»7] 



Co Calotte 



SINGING A SONG OF HIS OWN COMPOSITION 




HLORIS, yourself you so excel, 

When you vouchsafe to breathe 
my thought, 
That like a spirit, with this spell, 
Of my own teaching, I am 
caught. 



That eagle's fate and mine are one, 

Which on the shaft that made him 
die, 

Espy'd a feather of his own, 

Wherewith he wont to soar so high. 



Had Echo with so sweet a grace, 

Narcissus' loud complaints returned, 
Not for reflection of his face, 

But of his voice, the boy had burned. 

— Edmund Waller. 
[118] 






TAY, Phoebus! stay! 

The world to which you fly so 
fast. 

Conveying day. 
From us to them, can pay your 
haste 
With no such object nor salute your 

rise, 
With no such wonder as De Morney's 
eyes. 



Well does this prove 

The error of those antique books 
Which made you move. 
About the world : Her charming looks 
Would fix your beams, and make it ever day, 
Did not the rolling earth snatch her away. 

— Edmund Waller. 



["9] 



Co tflabia 




IS not your beauty can engage 
My wary heart : 
The sun, in all his pride and rage, 
Has not that art ! 
And yet he shines as bright as you, 
If brightness could our souls subdue. 

'Tis not the pretty things you say, 

Nor those you write, 
Which can make Thyrsis' heart your 
prey : 

For that delight, 
The graces of a well-taught mind, 
In some of our own sex we find. 

[120] 



®o jflatoia 

No, Flavia ! 'tis your love I fear ; 

Love's surest darts, 
Those which so seldom fail him, are 

Headed with hearts : 
Their very shadows make us yield ; 
Dissemble well, and win the field ! 

— Edmund Waller. 




[121] 



HOE'ER she be, 
That not impossible She 
That shall command my heart and 
me; 




Where'er she lie, 

Lock'd up from mortal eye 

In shady leaves of destiny : 

Till that ripe birth 

Of studied Fate stand forth, 

And teach her fair steps tread our earth ; 



Till that divine 

Idea take a shrine 

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine 

[122] 



"OTtyoe'er tyt be" 

— Meet you her, my Wishes, 

Bespeak her to my blisses, 

And be ye call'd, my absent kisses. 

I wish her beauty 
That owes not all its duty 
To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie 



Something more than 
Taffata or tissue can, 
Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 

A face that's best 

By its own beauty drest, 

And can alone commend the rest : 

A face made up 

Out of no other shop 

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. 

Sydnaean showers 
Of sweet discourse, whose powers 
Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. 
[«3.] 



J tt sfyt be" 



Whate'er delight 

Can make day's forehead bright 

Or give down to the wings of night. 

Soft silken hours, 

Open suns, shady bowers ; 

'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. 

Days, that need borrow 

No part of their good morrow 

From a fore-spent night of sorrow: 

Days, that in spite 

Of darkness, by the light 

Of a clear mind are day all night. 

Life, that dares send 

A challenge to his end, 

And when it comes, say, ' Welcome, friend.' 

I wish her store 

Of worth may leave her poor 

Of wishes ; and I wish no more. 

[124] 



"Mjjofer sfyt be" 

Now, if Time knows 

That Her, whose radiant brows 

Weave them a garland of my vows ; 

Her that dares be 

What these lines wish to see: 

I seek no further, it is She. 

'Tis She, and here 

Lo ! I unclothe and clear 

My wishes* cloudy character. 

Such worth as this is 
Shall fix my flying wishes, 
And determine them to kisses. 

Let her full glory, 

My fancies, fly before ye ; 

Be ye my fictions : — but her story. 

— Richard Crashaw. 



C»5] 



a Lallan upon a auetfcfns 




TELL thee, Dick, where I have 

been, 
Where I the rarer things have seen ; 

O, things without compare ! 
Such sights again cannot be found 
In any place on English ground, 

Be it at wake or fair. 



At Charing-Cross, hard by the way, 
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our 
hay, 

There is a house with stairs ; 
And there did I see coming down 
Such folk as are not in our town, 
Forty at least, in pairs. 
[126] 



3 HBallau upon a Meaning 

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine 
(His beard no bigger though than thine) 

Walked on before the rest : 
Our landlord looks like nothing to him : 
The King (God bless him) 'twould undo him, 

Should he go still so drest. 

At Course-a-Park, without all doubt, 
He should have first been taken out 

By all the maids i' th' town : 
Though lusty Roger there had been, 
Or little George upon the Green, 

Or Vincent of the Crown. 

But wot you what ? the youth was going 
To make an end of all his wooing : 

The parson for him stay'd : 
Yet by his leave (for all his haste) 
He did not so much wish all past 

(Perchance), as did the maid. 

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale), 
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 
['*7] 



3 315allaO upon a MeDUing 

Could ever yet produce : 
No grape, that's kindly ripe, could be 
So round, so plump, so soft as she, 

Nor half so full of juice. 

Her finger was so small, the ring 
Would not stay on, which they did bring, 

It was too wide a peck : 
And to say truth (for out it must) 
It looked like the great collar (just) 

About our young colt's neck. 

Her feet beneath her petticoat, 
Like little mice, stole in and out, 

As if they fear'd the light: 
And O, she dances such a way ! 
No sun upon an Easter-day 

Is half so fine a sight. 

Her cheeks so rare a white was on, 
No daisy makes comparison, 

(Who sees them is undone,) 
For streaks of red were mingled there, 
[128] 



£1 HBallao upon a We&Ding 

Such as are on a Cathering pear 

The side that's next the sun. 



Her lips were red, and one was thin, 
Compar'd to that was next her chin 

(Some bee had stung it newly) ; 
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, 
I durst no more upon them gaze 

Than on the sun in July. 

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, 
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, 

That they might passage get; 
But she so handled still the matter, 
They came as good as ours, or better, 

And are not spent a whit. 

Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving-man, with dish in hand, 
Marched boldly up, like our trained band, 

Presented, and away. 

k [129] 



3 UMlaU upon a OTeD&mg 

When all the meat was on the table, 
What man of knife or teeth was able 

To stay to be entreated ? 
And this the very reason was, 
Before the parson could say grace, 

The company was seated. 

The business of the kitchen's great, 
For it is fit that men should eat; 

Nor was it then denied : 
Passion o' me, how I run on ! 
There's that that would be thought upon 

(I trow) besides the bride. 

Now hats fly ofT, and youths carouse ; 
Healths first go round, and then the house, 

The bride's came thick and thick : 
And when 'twas named another's health, 
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth ; 

And who could help it, Dick ? 

On the sudden up they rise and dance ; 
Then sit again and sigh and glance : 

[i 3 o] 



# HBallaD upon a flMr&oing 

They dance again and kiss : 
Thus several ways the time did pass, 
Whilst ev'ry woman wished her place, 

And every man wished his. 

— Sir John Suckling. 




C'3«] 




HY so pale and wan, fond lover ? 
Prythee, why so pale ? 
Will, if looking well can't move her, 
Looking ill prevail? 
Prythee, why so pale ? 



Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prythee, why so mute? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prythee, why so mute ? 



Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move, 

This cannot take her; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her : 

The D— 1 take her! 

— Sir John Suckling. 



j 



Constancy 



UT upon it, I have loved 
Three whole days together ; 
And am like to love thee more, 
If it proves good weather. 




Time shall moult away his wings, 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on't is, no praise 

Is due at all to me : 
Love with me had made no stays, 

Had it any been but she. 



Had it any been but she, 

And that very face, 
There had been at least ere this 
A dozen dozen in her place. 

— Sir John Suckling. 
['33] 




"% prithee gen* me bacfr m? ^eatrt" 




PRITHEE send me back my heart, 
Since I cannot have thine : 

For if from yours you will not part, 
Why then shouldst thou have 



mine ? 

Yet now I think on't, let it lie ; 

To find it were in vain, 
For thou'st a thief in either eye 

Would steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 
And not yet lodge together ? 



"31 pticfjee $m& me bacfc mp Jeart" 

O Love ! where is thy sympathy, 
If thus our breasts thou sever? 

For love is such a mystery, 

I cannot find it out : 
For when I think I'm best resolved, 

I then am in most doubt. 

Then farewell care, and farewell woe, 

I will no longer pine ; 
For I'll believe I have her heart 

As much as she has mine. 

— Sir John Suckling. 




C'35] 






Co ait^ea from prison 




HEN Love with unconfined wings 
Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 
To whisper at the grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fetter' d to her eye, 
The Gods that wanton in the air 
Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses bound, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free- 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 
C'i36] 



tEo aitljea from prison 

When, (like committed linnets), I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty 

And glories of my King ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage ; 
If I have freedom in my love 

And in my soul am free, 

Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 

— Richard Lovelace. 




[•37] 



Co lucajsta, going beyonti t^e £>ea$ 




F to be absent were to be 
Away from thee ; 
Or that when I am gone 
You or I were alone ; 
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing 



wave. 



But I'll not sigh one blast or gale 
To swell my sail, 
Or pay a tear to 'suage 
The foaming blue-god's rage ; 
For whether he will let me pass 
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. 



Though seas and land betwixt us both, 
Our faith and troth, 
[*S8] 



Wo JLucasta, going beponu t\)t g>ea* 

Like separated souls, 
All time and space controls : 
Above the highest sphere we meet 
Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. 

So then we do anticipate 
Our after-fate 
And are alive i' the skies, 
If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In Heaven, their earthly bodies left behind. 

— Richard Lovelace. 




[>39] 



Co Hutam, on going to t^e Mat$ 



ELL me not. Sweet, I am unkind 
That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 
To war and arms I fly. 




True, a new mistress now I chase, 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore ; 
I could not love thee, Dear, so much, 

Loved I not Honour more. 

— Richard Lovelace. 
[Ho] 



C^e (Bra&tyoppet; 




H, thou that swing'st upon the waving 
ear 
Of some well-filled oaten beard, 
Drunk every night with some de- 
licious tear 
Dropt thee from heaven where thou 
wert reared: 

The joys of earth and air are thine en- 
tire, 
That with thy feet and wings dost hop 
and fly, 
And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire, 
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. 

Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then, 
Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams, 

And all these merry days mak'st merry men, 
Thyself, and melancholy streams. 
[Hi] 



But ah, the sickle ! golden ears are cropped ; 

Ceres and Bacchus bid good night ; 
Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have 
topped, 

And what scythes spared, winds shave off 

quite. 

— Richard Lovelace. 




[H»] 




There is a Garden in her face, 
Where Roses and white Lilies grow; 
A heav'nly paradise is that place, 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow. 
There Cherries grow which none may buy 
Till Cherry ripe themselves do cry. 

Those Cherries fairly do enclose 
Of Orient Pearl a double row ; 
Which when her lovely laughter shows, 
They look like Rose-buds fill'd with snow. 
Yet them nor Peer nor Prince can buy 
Till Cherry ripe themselves do cry. 
[«43] 



Her Eyes like Angels watch them still ; 
Her Brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threatning with piercing frowns to kill 
All that attempt, with eye or hand, 
Those sacred Cherries to come nigh, 
Till Cherry ripe themselves do cry. 

— Thomas Ca?npion. 




[H4] 




HOUGH you are young, and I am 
old, 
Though your veins hot, and my 
blood cold, 
Though youth is moist, and age is dry; 
Yet embers live, when flames do die. 

The tender graft is easily broke, 
But who shall shake the sturdy Oak ? 
You are more fresh and fair than I ; 
Yet stubs do live, when flowers do die. 



Thou, that thy youth dost vainly boast, 
Know buds are soonest nipt with frost: 
Think that thy fortune still doth cry, 
Thou fool, to-morrow thou must die! 

— Thomas Campion. 



[•45] 



amarillijS 




CARE not for these Ladies, 
That must be wooed and prayed: 
Give me kind Amarillis, 
The wanton country maid. 
Nature art disdaineth, 
Her beauty is her own. 

Her when we court and kiss, 
She cries, Forsooth, let go : 
But when we come where comfort is 
She never will say No. 

If I love Amarillis, 

She gives me fruit and flowers : 

But if we love these Ladies, 

We must give golden showers. 
Give them gold that sell love, 
Give me the Nut-brown lass, 

[h6] 



V 



#ttiarilli0 

Who, when we court and kiss, 
She cries, Forsooth, let go : 
But when we come where comfort is, 
She never will say No. 



These Ladies must have pillows, 
And beds by strangers wrought ; 
Give me a Bower of -willows, 
Of moss and leaves unbought, 
And fresh Amarillis, 
With milk and honey fed ; 

Who, when we court and kiss, 

She cries, Forsooth, let go : 

But when we come where comfort is, 

She never will say No ! 

— Thomas Campion. 




[H7] 





HERE she her sacred bower adorns, 
The Rivers clearly flow ; 
The groves and meadows swell with 
flowers 
The winds all gently blow. 
Her Sun-like beauty shines so fair, 

Her Spring can never fade : 
Who then can blame the life that strives 
To harbour in her shade ? 

Her grace I sought, her love I wooed, 

Her love though I obtain ; 
No time, no toil, no vow, no faith, 

Her wished grace can gain. 

[. 4 8] 



» Wfyttt stye tyx tfacjren boiler aDont0 ' 

Yet truth can tell my heart is hers, 

And her will I adore ; 
And from that love when I depart, 

Let heav'n view me no more ! 



Her roses with my praise shall spring; 

And when her trees I praise, 
Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit 

Shall strew her pleasant ways. 
The words of hearty zeal have power 

High wonders to effect; 
O why should then her princely ear 

My words, or zeal, neglect ? 



If she my faith misdeems, or worth, 

Woe worth my hapless fate ! 
For though time can my truth reveal, 

That time will come too late. 
And who can glory in the worth, 

That cannot yield him grace ? 
Content, in ev'rything is not, 

Nor joy in ev'ry place. 
[H9] 



"WLtytt 0f>e fcer ^acreD botoer a&orns" 

But from her bower of Joy since I 

Must now excluded be, 
And she will not relieve my cares, 

Which none can help but she; 
My comfort in her love shall dwell, 

Her love lodge in my breast, 
And though not in her bower, yet I 

Shall in her temple rest. 

— Thomas Campion. 




[■5°] 



HE man of life upright, 

Whose guiltless heart is free 
From all dishonest deeds, 
Or thought of vanity ; 




The man whose silent days, 
In harmless joys are spent, 

Whom hopes cannot delude 
Nor sorrow discontent; 

That man needs neither towers 
Nor armour for defence, 

Nor secret vaults to flie 
From thunder's violence ; 
[i5i] 



" ®\)t man of life upright " 

He only can behold 

With unaffrighted eyes 
The horrors of the deep 

The terrors of the skies. 

Thus, scorning all the cares 
That fate or fortune brings, 

He makes the heav'n his book, 
His wisdom heav'nly things ; 

Good thoughts his only friends, 
His wealth a well-spent age, 

The earth his sober Inn 
And quiet Pilgrimage. 

— T/iomas Campion. 




[«s»] 




HE peaceful western wind 
The winter storms hath tam'd, 
And nature in each kind 
The kind heat hath inflam'd : 
The forward buds so sweetly breathe 

Out of their earthy bowers, 
That heav'n which views their pomp 
beneath, 
Would fain be deckt with flowers. 

See how the morning smiles 
On her bright eastern hill, 
And with soft steps beguiles 
Them that lie slumbring still ! 

The music-loving birds are come 
From cliffs and rocks unknown, 

To see the trees and briers bloom 
That late were overflown. 
E'53] 



«W$t peaceful toeatern tomD" 

What Saturn did destroy, 

Love's Queen revives again ; 

And now her naked boy 

Doth in the fields remain, 
Where he such pleasing change doth view 

In every living thing, 
As if the world were born anew 

To gratify the Spring. 

If all things life present, 

Why die my comforts then ? 

Why suffers my content? 

Am I the worst of men ? 
O beauty, be not thou accus'd 

Too justly in this case ! 
Unkindly if true love be us'd, 

'Twill yield thee little grace. 

— Robert Campion. 




['54] 







<e<ia<c.w«''' , i)H epY»"«o^ 



^w 




Y sweetest Lesbia, let us live and 
love : 
And though the sager sort our deeds 
reprove, 

Let us not way them : heaven's great 
lamps do dive 

Into their west, and straight again re- 
vive; 

But soon as once set is our little light, 

Then must we sleep one ever-during 
night. 



If all would lead their lives in love like me, 
Then bloody swords and armour should not 

be; 
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should 

move, 

[i55] 



m $0y stoeetetft 3Lesbia, let u$ litie and lobe " 

Unless alar' me came from the camp of love : 
But fools do live, and waste their little 

light, 
And seek with pain their ever-during night. 

When timely death my life and fortune ends, 
Let not my hearse be vext with mourning 

friends ; 
But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come 
And with sweet pastimes grace my happy 

tomb : 
And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light, 
And crown with love my ever-during night. 

— Robert Campion. 




[■56] 




IGHT as well as brightest day hath 
her delight, 
Let us then with mirth and music 
deck the night. 
Never did glad day such store 

Of joy to night bequeath : 
Her Stars then adore, 

Both in Heav'n, and here beneath. 

Love and beauty, mirth and music yield 
true joys, 
Though the cynics in their folly count them 

toys. 
Raise your spirits ne'er so high, 

They will be apt to fall : 
None brave thoughts envy, 

Who had ere brave thought at all. 



" jNAt as toell s$ brightest trap" 

Joy is the sweet friend of life, the nurse of 

blood, 
Patron of all health, and fountain of all good : 
Never may joy hence depart, 

But all your thoughts attend ; 
Nought can hurt the heart, 
That retains so sweet a friend. 

— Robert Campion. 




[■58] 



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